


Control

by Glowbug



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Ending, Crash Landing, F/M, Gen, I promise nobody dies, Plane Crash, post-Wokingham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowbug/pseuds/Glowbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GERTI goes down in the Russian tundra, letting the members of MJN in for two of the hardest weeks of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Storm Warning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/843441) by [Starlithorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon). 
  * Inspired by [Somewhere Deep in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/800383) by [EverlivingGhosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverlivingGhosts/pseuds/EverlivingGhosts). 



> First of all, credit where due: this fic was inspired by Aftermath, which was itself inspired by Somewhere Deep in the Dark. (Transitive property of inspiration?) The crash referenced in Aftermath differs quite a bit from the crash depicted in its inspiring fic, and I found I wanted to read that story too. Except it hadn't been written. So I'm writing it.
> 
> I will likely be avoiding post-Wokingham canon references because Zurich is recorded now, and I figure the great John Finnemore has come up with a better ending for his series than I possibly could, even if I wanted to. (Besides, do any of us really want to imagine GERTI crashing in canon? I'd be biting my nails the whole way.)
> 
> I'm doing that fanfic thing where one starts posting chapters without having finished the fic. I've never done that before and I find it mildly terrifying, so yeah. :p Tags and such will be updated as I go.
> 
> All plot holes, Americanisms, and aviation factual errors are, of course, my own. :)

Skip likes milk and sugar in his coffee. Douglas drinks his black. Arthur is very, very careful not to mix them up. (It helps that milky coffee is a different color than black coffee. Only black coffee’s not really black, more of a really dark brown. He asked Mum about that once but she said to just call it black anyway and no, she didn’t know why people decided to call it that and stop giving her a headache, Arthur.)

“Nice,” Skip is saying as he opens the flight deck door.

“I think we can allow that, Martin, laying aside the trifling matter of pronunciation…”

Skip makes a frustrated noise.

“Coffee, chaps! And I’ve just put the dinner on. What’s the game?”

Douglas reaches up for his coffee. “Places with descriptive names. For example, Nice, France, or as our captain has suggested, _nice._ ”

“Brilliant!”

“The town of Brilliant,” Douglas remarks after a moment. “Not one _I’ve_ heard of, certainly…”

“Coffee, Skip?” Martin seems to have forgotten about Arthur and the coffee. He’s staring out the front window.

“Nasty,” Douglas says.

“Yes, it is, rather…” Skip says.

“No, Martin: Nasty, a charming little hamlet in Hertfordshire.” Douglas takes a swig of his coffee.

“No, but _look,_ Douglas.”

Douglas and Arthur both follow Skip’s gaze to a big line of thunderclouds ahead of them. “That’s rather a _larger_ bank of storms than I recall from the weather report.” Douglas sounds much grimmer than he did a second ago.

“Me too. Arthur, you’d better go back to the cabin and strap yourself in—we could be in for some turbulence.”

“Right-o, Skip!” Arthur carefully sets down Skip’s coffee and backs out of the flight deck. Douglas is talking to ATC, something about rerouting.

Back in the cabin, he fetches a pillow and buckles himself in. It’s too bad Mum’s not along this trip. She’s good company. She doesn’t much like turbulence, though. Also she said something about being damned if she’d fly from Moscow to Norilsk and back on a cargo flight. Arthur thinks maybe it’s something to do with Herc having a day off in Fitton yesterday, because Mum warned him specially _not_ to tell Skip and Douglas about that. So far Arthur’s done a very good job; they’re almost halfway back to Moscow now! The trick is just to not think about it too much.

Raindrops splatter against his window. Arthur smiles. GERTI’s bumping and bouncing around too much for him to really have a nap, but the pillow’s nice. He wonders if there _is_ a town called Brilliant somewhere in the world. If there isn’t, there should be. Maybe if Arthur ever founds a city he’ll call it that.

He’s almost dozed off, in spite of the turbulence, when he hears a noise like a thousand flying leprechauns with hammers banging on the sides of the plane. He opens his eyes just as a hailstone smashes against his window.

There’s a jolt, and the cabin lights go out. GERTI is left gray and dim and oddly quiet. Arthur can’t even hear the engines. He sits up straighter, putting his pillow in his lap, and waits.

The lights don’t come on. The intercom and the cabin address are both silent. It’s growing distinctly eerie and Arthur decides he really doesn’t want to be alone in the cabin right now. He undoes his seatbelt, keeping one hand on the back of the seat in front of him as he stands up. Mum taught him to always hold onto something when there’s turbulence.

He has to shove the galley curtain to one side before he can see in there; its lights are out too. The microwave and fridge are dark and silent. Arthur spares a thought to hope the dinner isn’t ruined. That thought is replaced by a bigger one:

Can planes fly without any power?

He pushes open the flight deck door and goes to check on his pilots.

 


	2. Mayday

Martin focuses on checklists and procedures. Breathe in, breathe out. No time to panic.

Flight controls—still responding, thank god. Radio—dead. (He might be a fool, for having tried at least three times to put out a mayday call from a radio with no power.) Weather conditions—bad. Ground conditions—he can’t even see the ground through the rain yet. Altitude—dropping, alarmingly quickly.

Beside him, Douglas growls and swears as the APU, ever finicky, refuses to start up. Meaning it’ll be nigh impossible to restart the main engines.

It’s a thousand times worse than St. Petersburg.

The flight deck door opens. “Chaps?”

“Arthur, jump seat,” Martin snaps. “We’ve lost both engines. Strap in, don’t talk. Clear?”

“Yes, Skip,” is Arthur’s only response. The familiar nickname triggers a wave of suppressed panic and Martin grits his teeth. He has to get them down out of this safely. He _has_ to. He’s the captain.

_Yes, but Douglas is the better pilot on board,_ Carolyn’s voice echoes in his brain. That scolding was years ago, after a terrible landing that never threatened any of their lives. Still… Carolyn, like Douglas, is often annoyingly right.

“You have control, Douglas.”

Douglas shoots him a surprised glance, even as he grasps the control column. Martin bites his lip and nods. He knows all the theory, but bringing GERTI down safely in a thunderstorm with no engines will take more than theory. It calls for all possible skill… and just as importantly, _luck._

In both respects, Douglas is their best bet. Perhaps he knows it; he returns the nod. “I have control, captain.”

They fall out of the clouds over a flat and desolate stretch of tundra. _At least we won’t hit anything when we land._ “Arthur, brace,” Martin instructs. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from someone else. “We’re probably going to crash.”

“Not without a fight,” Douglas growls. “Hold onto your hat, captain!”

Martin suppresses a laugh, lest he get hysterical. He leans in to advise Douglas as best he can. The ground looms up beneath them.

They hit with a crunching thud _,_ and he blacks out.

 


	3. Distress Calls

Carolyn and Arthur have a routine when she’s not aboard a flight. (To call it a tradition would be entirely too soppy.) When GERTI lands anywhere but Fitton, Arthur rings her first thing afterwards. (“We’re safe, Mum!” “I should hope so, dear heart.”) He rang her yesterday afternoon, when MJN arrived in Norilsk. It would appear the city is sadly lacking in polar bears, but is brilliant nonetheless.

Her alarm clock sounds. She shuts it off, still groggy, and is halfway to the kitchen when she remembers she spoke to Martin yesterday as well. MJN was to fly back to Moscow first thing in the morning. Given the four-hour time difference, they ought to have landed an hour or so ago. Carolyn goes back upstairs and retrieves her mobile. No missed calls. Arthur hasn’t rung yet. Odd.

Perhaps they’ve had a takeoff delay.

She takes the phone downstairs with her and fixes breakfast, a breakfast blissfully free of Arthur’s famous culinary experiments. Terrifying, the things that boy can do to French toast.

Later, with breakfast and a shower both completed, she checks the mobile again. Still nothing. She considers texting Herc to say she enjoyed the opera last night but dismisses the idea almost at once; she, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, developing a fondness for opera? Or even a fondness for… her companion at the opera? She’d never hear the end of it. She goes in search of Snoopadoop’s lead instead.

When she comes back from walking Snoopadoop with a still-silent phone in her purse, she pulls it out and rings Arthur herself.

“Hello sir or madam, you’ve reached Arthur Shappey. Except it’s not really me, it’s just a recording of me. We do regret to inform you that unfortunately myself is unable to take yourself’s call at this time. We ask that you please leave a message after the little beep coming up in a moment and myself will ring you back as soon as myself is available. Thank you. Okay, bye!”

_Beeeep._

Carolyn shakes her head, smiling. Only Arthur would dream of having such a ridiculous voicemail greeting. “Arthur, it’s me. I thought you’d have landed by now. Ring me when you get this, would you?” She hangs up.

After lunch she makes the drive to the airfield, grateful that Douglas isn’t around to tease her for going in so late. Business has been slow, and all she really has to do is paperwork. When she arrives there are no messages on the answerphone and none of importance in the email. On a whim, she picks up the office phone and dials GERTI’s satcom. It rings, and rings, and continues to ring until she gives up and tries Martin’s mobile instead.

“Hello, this is Martin Crieff of Icarus Removals. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message and I will ring you back as soon as possible. Thank you.”

_Beeeep._

Now, why couldn’t he sound so professional when he’s trying to act like a proper captain? “Martin, it’s Carolyn.” _Arthur hasn’t rung me,_ she’s about to say. _Where are you three?_ But that might be too sentimental, and goodness knows unexpected things happen when flying on GERTI. Instead she says, “You have landed, haven’t you, as opposed to circling round the airport like moths round a candle? I think Arthur has forgotten to charge his phone, but one of you give me a ring when you get this.” _Click._

She attacks her mound of paperwork with grim determination. No small amount of it is bills. She lingers over the check to the insurance company. After the near-fiasco at St. Petersburg she was forced to admit that insuring GERTI against damage was, indeed, a necessary part of keeping her company barely above water, but the extra expense prevents her from either paying down MJN’s debts or giving her hapless captain a salary.

Her phone remains silent, and halfway through the stack of bills and forms she sets her pen down and rings Douglas.

“Hello, this is Douglas Richardson. Alas, I am unable to answer your call at the moment, but do feel free to leave a message.”

 _Beeeep._ Carolyn notes that Douglas has made no promises about returning calls. How very like him.

“Douglas, it’s Carolyn. I’ve been ringing the three of you for hours—where the hell are you? If you’ve gotten yourselves killed I shall be most put out.” She stifles a gasp as she realizes what she’s said. No. Martin doesn’t let them get into trouble, and when they do Douglas gets them out of it. They’re fine. They’re all three fine, just… not answering their phones, for some reason. Surely. “Douglas,” she says. “If one of you does not call me back I will halve your salary and give the difference to Martin, _do you understand?”_ She hangs up before the sudden rush of terror induces her to say more.

She picks up her pen again, but the words on the papers swim in front of her eyes. To hell with it. Carolyn rifles through the stack until she finds the booking information for the Moscow-Norilsk flight. There. She puts a finger on the phone number for the Moscow airport and picks up the office phone again.

“This is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, owner and CEO of MJN Air. I want to know the status of the MJN flight that was to land at your airport—” She glances at the clock and does a quick calculation. “—about seven hours ago.”

“Let me check,” the girl on the other end of the line says, and is silent for a couple of minutes. Carolyn taps her pen on the table impatiently. “Ma’am, I cannot find any records for this arrival, I need to go and get my supervisor. One moment.”

Carolyn is put on hold. She forces herself to sit still. One minute. Two. Seven.

“Hello, Ms. Knapp-Shappey?” A male voice, light, Russian accent.

“Yes,” she says.

“My name is Isaak. I, ah, apologize for the wait. There is… a problem. It appears that the MJN flight which was scheduled to arrive today…”

 _“What?”_ Carolyn grips the edge of her desk. Her fingers turn white.

“It has not landed. It is not here.”

Carolyn speaks very slowly and clearly. “What. Do. You. _Mean_ , it’s not there? My son and my pilots are on board that aeroplane. _Tell me where they are._ ”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Knapp-Shappey,” Isaak says. “We don’t know.”


	4. Immediate Return

“Post-landing checks complete, Captain Shipwright.”

“Thank you, Patrick.” Herc stretches lazily, smiling to himself. Another smooth flight. Time to enjoy a few free hours in Berlin—the barbarous popularity of bratwurst notwithstanding.

He follows his FO into the airport. Perhaps he should track down a vegetarian bratwurst (if indeed such a thing exists) and present it to Carolyn. A gift in the same vein as the musty-smelling sheep now hidden in the deepest depths of his closet. It goes against his romantic inclinations somewhat, but he thinks she might appreciate it.

“Huh, look at that.” Patrick points out a nearby TV screen. It’s impossible to hear the news anchor over the airport noise, but the headline is clear:

_Charter Plane Missing Over Russia_

The accompanying photo is a publicity shot of a battered old aeroplane with one oddly new-looking engine, her crew posing beside her. Even at this distance Herc knows their expressions: the taller pilot regarding the camera with triumphant dignity, the shorter smiling just slightly. The steward grinning from ear to ear, one arm blurred from waving at the camera. And the CEO, her bearing not unlike that of a queen, but with enough fondness in her expression that Herc smiles involuntarily just looking at her.

He knows this photo well. It’s hanging in a frame in Carolyn’s office.

Herc’s smile fades. “That’s MJN,” he hears himself say.

“You _know_ that ramshackle outfit?” Patrick asks.

Herc nods. “I’ve mentioned Carolyn? She’s the owner.” He slips a hand into the side pocket of his flight bag and pulls out his mobile, switching it on. “Go ahead without me. I’m going to phone her.”

Patrick nods. “Hope it’s all right, Herc.”

“Thanks.” Herc’s phone chimes. Two missed calls from Carolyn, one voicemail. Herc calls up the voicemail, closing his eyes as he listens.

“Herc, Carolyn. Friday will have to be off; something’s happened.” A long pause. “Call me.” _Click._

When Herc opens his eyes, Patrick is gone and he’s standing amidst a stream of travelers. He moves to one side, dialing Carolyn as he goes.

She answers her mobile almost immediately, her voice frantic. “Arthur?!”

“No, Herc.”

“Oh.” He hears her let out a breath. “I… didn’t check.”

“It’s all right,” Herc says. “I got your message, and I’ve seen the news.” When she does not respond he prompts, “How long has the plane been missing?”

“Since yesterday,” Carolyn says. “They’re searching. No sign of it. An entire little club of reporters barged in this morning to ask questions.”

“Are you all right?”

“Fine! Fine! What could _possibly_ be worrisome about my son, my pilots, and the future of my company all hanging in the balance until _someone_ shows enough competence to _find my bloody plane!”_

“It was a ridiculous question. I apologize.” Herc takes a deep breath. “I’ll be back in Fitton as soon as I can.”

“Hercules, I have a crisis on my hands!”

“That is precisely why I am coming back,” Herc says. “I’ve found that in times of crisis it can be most helpful to have company and freshly-made coffee.”

Carolyn’s voice turns hollow. “Arthur makes the coffee.” Herc has only ever heard her refer to Arthur with fond exasperation; now she sounds forlorn. It worries him.

“Then,” he says gently, “I shall endeavor to live up to his example, if you will allow me.”

Silence.

“Carolyn?”

“All right,” she says at last. “I’ll be in the MJN office.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Herc says again. He almost adds, “I love you,” but refrains. Carolyn seems to get nervous when she hears those words, for reasons Herc has yet to comprehend, and he doesn’t want to place more stress on her shoulders. Nonetheless, it pains him to ring off without expressing the thought.

He goes to the Berlin offices of Air Caledonia and requests immediate leave, citing a family emergency. It takes an hour of negotiation and several called-in favors to clear his schedule for the next week, but he manages it once he agrees to pilot the return flight from Berlin to London, as planned. It’s only a few hours to Fitton from there.

Carolyn no doubt has everything in hand, to the extent the situation allows. But _someone_ has to ensure she doesn’t run herself ragged.

Herc only hopes he’ll be up to the task.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herc is hard to write! Next chapter soon (I hope), to shed light on the fate of the missing MJN crew!


	5. Post-Landing Checks

Everything hurts.

“Douglas?”

His head is pounding. A hangover? He hasn’t had a hangover in years, has he?

“Douglas?”

Someone is shaking him. Douglas cracks an eye open and, with a groan, closes it again. The light is gray and dim but somehow painful.

“Douglas, you landed us and we’re on the ground and it would be really good if you woke up now… please?”

Douglas forces his eyes open enough to squint at the person bending over him. Arthur’s worried face swims into focus.

“Oh! Brilliant. Well, a bit brilliant. I thought… er… you all right?”

Douglas blinks. His head hurts, his vision’s still swimming a bit and there’s a dull pain in his side that becomes a sharp stab when he takes a deep breath or tries to move. “Alive,” he manages.

“Brilliant!”

“No,” Douglas says, _“not_ that.” He has to stop for a couple of shallow breaths. “Just alive.” He struggles to focus enough to complete his self-assessment. Cracked ribs, probably, and a concussion. That seems to be the worst of it. He wishes his medical training was more recent.

A faint “unngh” sounds from the other side of the flight deck. “Skip!” Arthur shouts, scrambling over to the captain’s seat.

“Oww…” Martin raises a hand to his head _._

“Skip, you’re alive!!!” That level of Arthurian enthusiasm should alert anyone in a mile radius to their presence.

“Not so… loud, Arthur,” Martin says with a groan. “Wha… what happened?”

“We crashed, Skip,” Arthur says, wide-eyed. “Don’t you remember?”

Douglas is starting to. He braces for pain and, with a grunt, sits up straighter, surveying the flight deck. Everything’s at an odd angle and GERTI’s windshield is a spiderweb of cracks. He can’t remember the impact—he must have hit his head—but he does remember fighting to land them safely.

Martin is likewise looking around. “There was… a storm. Hail. We lost the engines…” His eyes meet Douglas’s. A small smile forms on his face. “You got us down, Douglas.” Douglas has never heard that level of awe in Martin’s voice before. “You did it!”

He feels a grin sneaking onto his own face. “On no engines. Carolyn”—he pauses to breathe—”owes us sushi.”

Martin blinks, then his smile widens and he starts to giggle, almost hysterically. “She _does,_ doesn’t she!”

Arthur’s voice cuts through the levity when Martin finally calms down. “Chaps? Where are we?”

Martin rubs his eyes, and Douglas forces himself to study the ground beyond the windshield. The view is distorted by the cracks, but one thing is clear: there are no buildings, roads, or other signs of civilization in sight.

“We are somewhere between Norilsk and Moscow, Arthur,” he says. “Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“We should get out,” Martin mutters. “Check the plane…”

“I seriously doubt that GERTI will be flying us out of here, Martin.” Douglas sighs. “But I take your point. Arthur, are you hurt? Not bumps and bruises, but things you might need a doctor for?”

Arthur takes the question seriously, wiggling his fingers and looking over all his limbs before he answers. “I don’t think so. I’m going to have _loads_ of bruises, though!”

“Martin, you?”

Martin, too, takes a moment before he speaks. “Think I hit my head. Don’t remember landing. But… that’s it.”

“In that case—” Damn, giving orders takes too much air. He takes several deliberately shallow breaths and tries again. “Arthur, get the first aid kit and open the doors. You’re going to have to help us out of the plane.”

“Can I put out the emergency slide?” Arthur asks. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”

“Oh, why the hell not.”

“Brilliant!” Arthur disappears into the galley.

“Not stairs?” Martin fumbles with his seatbelt.

Douglas shrugs. “Let him have his fun.”

“You hurt?”

Douglas is silent. He knows he shouldn’t lie, but he’s tempted.

“Douglas.” Martin’s forehead scrunches in concentration. “I’m the captain. Responsible. Need to know.”

“I’m almost certain I’ve cracked some ribs,” Douglas admits.

“Oh. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It could do with medical attention, yes.” The obvious problem with that hangs in the air, unspoken.

A _whoosh_ sounds from outside and a faint “Brilliant!” rings from the cabin. A moment later Arthur reappears, flight bag over his shoulder, the first aid kit sticking out of it. “All ready, chaps!” He helps the pilots up, passing them coats and hats before leading the way out of the flight deck.

Douglas is the last out of the plane. He’s made emergency landings before, but always on proper runways. To set foot on rough, frozen ground is strange. Arthur hangs onto Douglas with one hand and Martin with the other, helping them away from the plane with surprising efficiency.

“Ooh, Skip, that’s a really nasty bump on your head. You should put ice on that. I think we’ve got one of those instant cold pack things in here…”

As Arthur rummages in the first aid kit, Douglas gets his first good look at the plane. GERTI lists onto her left wing, which is bent. Her nose is dented from hitting the ground. The engines are dripping water and it looks as if a piece of the tail has fallen off. Heaven knows what other damage was done in the crash.

Martin whistles. Arthur looks up from his rummaging. “ _Wow_.”

“Wow, indeed,” Douglas says. “I fear our GERTI has made her last flight.” Martin nods sadly.

“Wh-what do we do now?” The look on Arthur’s face all but defines “negative euphoria.”

“Wait for rescuers, I suppose,” Martin says.

“Will they come soon?” Arthur asks. “Mum’ll be worried, won’t she?”

Martin glances at Douglas, who shakes his head slightly. There’s no telling when or if rescue might come; there’s also no point in scaring Arthur. “Could be a few days,” he says. “Rest assured, however, that if _anyone_ can get us out of here it will be your mother at gale force twelve.”

Arthur smiles. “Brilliant.”

They regard their aeroplane in silence for a moment. Fussy though GERTI is—was—she carried them through countless jobs, and almost as many adventures. Martin doffs his captain’s hat, holding it to his chest. Douglas follows suit.

“Why are we taking our hats off?” Arthur whispers.

“Show of respect, Arthur,” Martin says quietly.

“A salute,” Douglas adds, “to the noblest ramshackle aircraft ever to grace the skies.”

Arthur isn’t wearing his ridiculous hat, but he puts his hand on his heart.

 


End file.
